


Untitled #2

by littlemel



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3242129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemel/pseuds/littlemel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it feels more like remembering than dreaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled #2

**Author's Note:**

> Written in about an hour for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/bandomquickie/2731.html) at [](http://bandomquickie.livejournal.com/profile)[**bandomquickie**](http://bandomquickie.livejournal.com/). Thanks to [](http://ciel-vert.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ciel-vert.livejournal.com/)**ciel_vert** for the once-over! Originally posted March 27, 2009.

Sometimes it feels more like remembering than dreaming.

But it's too real to be just a dream, and too dream-like to be really real. Small things are off; out of order or out of place, the wrong colors or just the wrong _things_. Words don't make sense. Like the copy of a copy of something someone drew from memory.

*

Warped Tour feels like sleepaway camp. Not that Mikey ever went to camp, but he thinks it might've been like this, sort of, from things he's heard and read and seen.

He's in Pete's bunk and Pete's half on top of him, his hand splayed just under Mikey's ribs. Mikey's pushing at Pete's t-shirt, impatient fingers scrabbling underneath the damp hem. Pete squirms closer, arching into Mikey's hands. He tastes like cotton candy, and the bunk smells like sunblock and sweat, like summer. Mikey feels sugar-high, young and giddy and reckless in the best kind of way.

Pete makes a choked-off surprised kind of sound when Mikey's thumb grazes his nipple, and Mikey shushes him with a giggle. The bus is empty, but it never stays that way for long. No one knows about this, about him and Pete, and Mikey hasn't had a secret in forever.

 _Clandestine_ , he thinks, and giggles again.

*

Middle of the tour and there's a party on everyone's bus. Mikey's refilled his yellow plastic cup (but they were always red, always) too many times to count. He doesn't even know whose bus he's on. The music's too loud to talk over, but Pete's smiling at him, and Mikey's cup is empty again. He wants a cigarette.

Pete follows him outside, talking with his hands, flashing his toothy grin. His hair whips around his face, dark strands clinging to his eyelashes and the corner of his mouth. He picks them away mindlessly, fingers quick like birds. The wind changes direction abruptly and Mikey exhales a plume of smoke in Pete's face. Pete coughs, and they laugh, easy and low.

"Fuck. Sorry, dude." The cloud dissipates with the frantic waving of Mikey's hand, and the sky beyond is bruise-colored; purple fading into yellow, greenish along the horizon. Mikey has no idea if it's getting lighter or darker, earlier or later, only that it's somewhere in between.

He moves to stand downwind and Pete catches him by the wrist, tugs. Their noses bump, and Pete's laughing again when he presses his mouth to Mikey's, already talking when he pulls away.

Mikey blinks, licks his lips. He has no idea what Pete's saying, can't hear anything but his own heartbeat in his ears, but he's grinning, nodding along. Pete's still got hold of Mikey's wrist, his fingers slipping along the spaces between Mikey's, squeezing once before they're gone.

*

Pete's drunk. They're both drunk. And on top of someone's bus, somehow. The festival rages on behind them, more bass thump and dull crowd roar than anything. In front of them, the sun is setting. They're sitting side by side with their elbows resting on drawn-up knees, squinting into the copper-colored light. Pete sways into him, hooks his chin over Mikey's arm.

"Hey," he says, and Mikey _hmms_ , blinks away from the sunset and then they're kissing again. Kissing for real, all tongue and teeth and spit. Pete's fingers brush Mikey's ankle, and Mikey twists into it, touches Pete's face. Pete ducks away, takes a breath, murmurs something that gets lost in the wind when he nudges Mikey's mouth open again with his. Mikey didn't have to hear it anyway. He knows.

*

Mikey wakes up alone, tangled in his sheets, his bunk light still on. The bus is quiet but it's loud outside.

He doesn't remember Pete leaving, doesn't remember falling asleep or the reason for the way his stomach's churning, like clammy, wringing hands. His glasses are still mostly on his face; he reaches up to set them right and sees the letters on his arm.

He can't read the words, but he knows the handwriting. He knows what it says, and smears the words into his stinging eyes when he drags the back of his arm across them.

He remembers.

Kissing, and Pete's hand on top of his, cautioning like a yellow traffic light. Mikey's fingers slipping over the button on Pete's jeans, slipping inside, skin on skin. The half-second before Pete nodded, just slightly, and Mikey thought his fucking heart was going to explode. Pete's small, sharp teeth clipping Mikey's lip, his thumb digging into Mikey's wrist. Pushing the wrong way, and the kiss smeared apart messily, loud in the tight space.

"Fuck, I can't," Pete said, gritty and hoarse and fucking _sad_. He touched his forehead to Mikey's, curved his hand over the back of Mikey's neck so Mikey couldn't pull away. "I can't. _Fuck_. I'm sorry, Mikey."

Mikey just shrugged, like it was nothing, no big deal, no need for apologies. Like his sinuses weren't burning, and his chest didn't feel too small.

"S'okay," he lied, because that's what Pete wanted him to do.

*

Mikey's not sure what wakes him up, but his eyes are opening, squinting in the pearly morning light.

For a second the dream hangs in his mind, like the sticky heat of a summer day after the sun's slumped below the horizon. He can almost remember it, almost knows why his heart is pounding so hard against his ribs and why his brain adjusts for Pacific time when he looks at the clock. 5:14 a.m. here; quarter past two in L.A. The bedroom's cold, but Mikey's sweating.

Piglet woofs quietly in her sleep, her big paws twitching against Mikey's calf, and Alicia shifts in closer against Mikey's back, sighing against his shoulder. Her hand slides across Mikey's stomach, small and hot and familiar. The dream gets a little fuzzier, a little more distant, less real.

Mikey turns over clumsily, jostling Alicia awake. Her eyes flutter open, focus on Mikey's. He feels himself smile, and Alicia does, too, after a beat. She nuzzles in to kiss him, softly in the semi-dark, and Mikey forgets.


End file.
